As It Was
by sick-atxxheart
Summary: Random one-shots with different characters, pairings, eras, and meanings. Focuses on life, love, pain, triumph, and hatred.
1. Beautiful

Two groups of people stood lined up facing one another, the twilight making their faces unrecognizable and the shadows making their bodies just silouettes against the rapidly fading background. It was fairly obvious who the two sides were- one side was covered completely in black- black robes and masks, and an evil aura hung around them. Their faces were set into grim lines of determination behind thier masks, whether it was because of a true dedication to the cause or simply a wish for it all to be over, one could not be sure; but the other side was obviously the Light side. Men and women, boys and girls, without masks and dressed in simple attire stood on the other side; an army would have laughed at them, but they were stronger than anyone knew.

At the forefront of the Dark side stood Lord Voldemort, the leader of the Dark and the most evil person known to man. On the Light side, however, there was no front and no back. Everyone stood in one line, equal to one another, regardless of their age or their power. Everyone ws given a chance.

Voldemort only felt contempt for those standing up so defiantly to his power. However, in line, one person, one face, called out to him, no matter how much he tried to ignore it.

Hermione Granger. A mudblood- her blood was dirty, not even worthy to be considered, he told himself- but still, he thought she ws beautiful. A Light witch, and one of the most powerful ones of that time, Voldemort had to admit- and that fact too appealed to him. She had _power_, even if she used it for another cause. She could control the magic that many could only dream of, and Voldemort could see the similarities between himself and her. They both were amazingly strong, and- bringing out a part that he didn't like to consider- neither were Purebloods.

But she had gone against him _so many_ times, standing next to Harry Potter. And there she stood, her hair waving in the wind, just a shadow as she stood across from him- and Voldemort knew, deep in his cold, cold heart that whatever he did, her opinion of him would ever change. He wasn't sure if he loved her- he wasn't even sure he _could_ feel love. But she hated him with a passion that would never die- and for the time being, Voldemort was content with the fact that she was beautiful, and powerful, and she was just like him- except she had leaned towards the other side. She was good, and that made the difference.

He would never turn his back on his ways, even for her- that would never happen, for the power called to him to much, and he had never doubted that insanity had already come to call. But he knew beauty when he saw it, and he knew brains and he knew power- and she possessed it with every ounce of her being, with her courage and bravery that came from Gryffindor and then also the stealth and the secrets that he knew she had from Slytherin. She was like him, after all.

Despite the fact that she was good, despite the fact that she would never change her opinion of him- Voldemort loved her anyway. She was beautiful.

--

** A bit OOC. But oh well. This was written for wotcher-tonks' never-before-seen pairing challenge on HPFC. Please review. This is my collection fic, where I will put all my challenges and my one-shots that have nowhere to go. **


	2. Shadowed

**Shadowed: from Harry's POV. Set after the final battle.**

**--**

The darkness is all that really keeps me alive, I think. Really. Because in it, I think about everything and nothing, at the same time. Nothing is real, and nothing matters. All that really matters is the way the shadows fall on the faces of those gone, but not forgotten; those forgotten, but not gone. I remember everything and feel nothing. As if a dream. And I find myself not caring. That's the best way. Don't care and feel nothing.

The shadows fill me up but still I hurt. I think I feel nothing but really I do: I feel... Longing, longing for those dead and longing for those alive. Even the ones who aren't dead, they aren't real to me- not really, because I'm not the same. I hate myself, and they don't understand. They can't understand, because they aren't living with guilt that threatens to eat them alive. I am. All this is my fault.

Every single person who has died- they torment me, their faces glaring. Dead faces. They can't be here, they're not real- that is what I tell myself, they can't be real. But still I scream, because I am weak. It doesn't matter. I was meant to die anyways, that's what everyone always planned on. Me, the hero. Everybody's hero. It didn't matter, and it doesn't matter. Why should it? All I do is sit here alone, watching as faces torment me and as memories flash by. Shadows. That's all there is. Because I don't let light in. That would only remind me. Light- it would only remind me of the way things were supposed to turn out. Things don't always end up the way they were meant to. All these people aren't supposed to be dead.

They bring me food and water, all the living people do. They tell me that it isn't my fault, that nothing is my fault. They say I was so good- sacrificing myself for the greater good, and all.

Yes, I sacrificed myself. So why am I still here? I didn't want to feel this pain anymore.

But then I don't really want to die either.

But what do I have to live for? Certainly not the faces that I see. They are already dead, as is my fault. But I don't feel it necessary to live on in their honor if I was the one who killed them. My fault.

I often feel embraces, a warm touch. More words. 'It isn't your fault." It is my fault, and words aren't going to change that.

So alone in silence I wait, awaiting the day when it won't matter. Shadows. Surrounded by shadows, living and dead. Memories. Thoughts and feelings. Nothing but dark and dreams and sleep that I hope will rescue me. Keep me sane. Drive me crazy. I don't know. It doesn't matter. I am sane, and I am crazy. I lose myself and I don't know it. I speak and the words are unknown, like little bits of myself being revealed. Secrets. I am insane, but I'm not. Only in moments. Only at times. My face is shadowed.

A warm hand slips into mine. Shadowed. Unknown body, unknown smile. I hear the words.

"I love you, Harry."

The body snuggles up to mine, and I flinch but do not pull away. The faces are gone. Only memories, only memories and shadows to haunt me now. But something matters. I have something to live for. Someone loves me.

Those words matter.

--

**Please Review.**


	3. Hero

I was able to feel lives rush around me, both dead and alive. The noise that pounded through my ears was deafening beyond belief. Spells whizzed by, and it seemed to be superhuman speed and perhaps even luck that kept me alive now- the sound of the screams echoed throughout my head like a heartbeat. _Beat, beat, beat_- one more second, one more breath- one more step, through the heat and the screams that seem to constantly decorate the battlefield. My hair stuck to my forehead with sweat, and my body was heavy with exhaustion- but the wand in my hands was all I focused on, and sending spells out again and again. trying not to think about where the spells went and what lives they were ending.

I had always wanted to be fight, ever since I was a young child. Battle has always been glorified in my family- a way of honor, giving you a sense of duty to your world and a sort of ownership of your soul. My father had been in the service, long before I was born, but all the stories he shared with me have been long forgotten- lost after his death. My brother had gone to battle and died, which was, of course, a tragedy.

Long ago, though, my dream was lost due to my own selfishness. I had dreamed of being joined with brothers in battle, to stand together and fight like brave and true men. But then my path was shadowed by other things- greed and jealousy and selfishness and want, and from there on out I was tainted. No longer _could_ I fight without feeling my past scars shatter my body. Because those scars were there, and _are_ still present- every time I move, every time I breathe. Every mistake I made, every person I willingly hurt- each one is a memory now, and a lesson. I am haunted now- and that is why I stand here, my wand in hand, fighting for my world, my dream renewed. I suppose it is a blessing that I am here today, standing tall, if not weighted down by duty- but still, my decisions have broken me. I cannot even speak of it now- the people that were hurt by my decisions and the groups I interacted with cause me deep despair now. I am changed- but the memory still is there. I am not proud of my life.

I have been told that some of my guilt is taken away by the fact that I am now so honorably fighting for my world, and perhaps I am noble for it. But is like a weight- now it balances out. Nothing is taken away, and nothing new is given. I am still just as guilty- but now, there is some good in me. I am not a failure, now.

The man I am fighting along side is a good man, and I am grateful for it. I trust this man with my life, and although we have never spoken of it- perhaps out of fear- I know he feels the same way towards me. We are similar in more ways than one, and our caution in battle shows- for the men that have fallen next to us are now dead, but we are still standing. Never once to we let up- for that means death, and both of us know it. Step by step we move together in line, spells firing at a rapid pace and eyes scanning the surrounding area- for our enemy is relentless too, and _never give up, never give in_ is a universal cheer. I knew that I would never think twice of stepping in front of him to save him, even if it seems senseless- even if it would be pointless.

I never expected that moment to truly come- but it did, faster than I could have ever imagined.

A misstep on my part caused his fault, and together our line was broken, creating a pause in both our offense and defense. As I looked at him for what seemed to be the briefest second, out of the corner of my eye I could spot the other man, the enemy, seeing the advantage that he had- and taking it.

I moved faster in that moment than I had ever moved before. Another person _would not_ be injured or die for my mistakes- and my decision was cemented in that millisecond, in that miniscule moment of time in which the spell screamed toward us. My simple step was the strongest, and even the easiest, thing I have ever done- and behind me, I could feel his gasp and his step out of the way, but it was too late. I had taken it for him. My life was slipping away, rather than his.

He has moved on now, more of need than of want. He can't stay here now, crying over a lost companion, a lost brother- for that would be his own suicide, except different than from what mine was. He had whispered words to be, but my delirium hadn't permitted understanding.

They say that pain can be the best motivator, the best teacher. But when you are facing your death- when pain is all that encompasses you- it represents something entirely different.

That is what I realize now. I am lying here on the ground, fully surprised that my life hasn't slipped away yet- but I can feel it going, just the way I can feel the pain course through me. That is all I feel pain, endless pain- from the hole in my chest from the spell, and from my head, running through my blood to fill all of me. It is like my whole life crammed into a little jar- my mind is slipping away, my sight is going. I am fading. Soon, there will be nothing left of me- the pain, the spell, is taking that all away. There is no hope for me now. I am controlled by what I now cannot control- the hurt, the longing for life, the pain that sweeps through me at a rate incomprehensible- and as my body shuts down, I know that I do not regret my decision. How could I? My brother, the man I fought alongside, is alive now, because of me. My brother is alive, even though I will soon be dead. It is a life for a life- and maybe, now that I have offered up myself, maybe some of that guilt from before _is_ gone. Maybe pain- death- maybe it does, _can_, bring new life. Maybe, for me, it will.

My own pain is private- residing in my body, in my soul, in my heart, in my mind. It is inside of me, controlling me now, and I will die from it- of that I am sure, and now I have no regrets. My private pain is now what makes me whole, through the agony that I am feeling. I miss nothing, and even now, I am beginning to feel nothing.

But I know that my sacrifice will not be in vain. Perhaps those around me will survive, even though I didn't. Maybe the world will be a better place, maybe there is more hope, because of what I did. My name will be on the list of the dead, those killed in active duty- and perhaps people will mourn my name. They don't know me as a person- they see my name, and they will see the duty that I followed even unto death. The doom that I now face- but perhaps with eternal life accompanying it, now- won't go unheeded. It wasn't an empty sacrifice. People will see my name, and they will respect me for what I did. _Died in active duty_. I gave my life. My story is tragic- I see that now, as my life slips away with the single seconds that pass- but still, moment-to-moment, I am not afraid. I made my decision. Alone, I die- my life passes away- but in my mind, and in my heart, I stand tall. I die with pride.

I am a hero.

--

**This was written in general, for any character. Please review.**


	4. Fighting

_This is a random drabbley-ish/poemy-ish thingie I just wrote out of inspiration. _

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She fought against his words, and she lost.

Ginny Weasley, pure-blood, blood traitor- she had been drawn in when she was only eleven.

She wasn't a Light warrior anymore.

--

He fought against the darkness, and he won.

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One- every since year one he had been expected to redeem the world.

He hadn't wanted to save anyone.

--

He fought against depression, and he lost.

Severus Snape, Death Eater, spy- Lily's death had broken him.

He had known that the Light and the Dark would rip him in two.

--

He had fought against the Dark, and he won.

Albus Dumbledore, Headmater, manipulator- the lives he had broken didn't faze him at all.

He had wanted everyone to live.

--

He had fought against being different, and he lost.

Tom Riddle, orphan, Dark Lord- his cruelty was his only mask.

He had only wanted to be someone.

--

She had fought against obscurity, and she had won.

Hermione Granger, book worm, hero- fighting against the Dark had given her Light.

She had always known that cleverness wasn't all that mattered.

--

He had fought against expectations, and he had lost.

Draco Malfoy, Slytherin, Death Eater- he had realized what he really wanted too late.

He had everything, and he was worth nothing.

--

He had fought against unworthiness, and he had won.

Ron Weasley, sidekick, hero- being left behind only meant something when there was a reason.

He had always known he wouldn't be left behind.

--

He had fought against failure, and he had lost.

Sirius Black, Marauder, betrayer- only he knew it was a lie.

He had only hoped that James would understand.

--

He had fought against losing himself, and he had won.

Remus Lupin, teacher, werewolf- transformations were always painful when there was no one there to understand.

He hadn't smiled in twelve years.

--

They fought against each other, and they all lost.

Ron Weasley, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ginny Weasley, Draco Malfoy, Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape. Warriors, fighters, heroes.

When it was all over, no one won, because too much had been lost.

--

**Please review.**


	5. Nothing

**A/N: This was originally it's own little one-shot, but I decided just to add it to this random story gathering thing instead ;] Please review.**

**--**

The night was cold, and that made the pain in his heart even worse. The moon seemed to shine forebodingly, as if to warm of something that was coming- something worse, and Harry wasn't even quite sure what _could_ be worse.

Too much had been lost already. Too much had been offered and sacrificed, and Harry wondered if he _had_ any more to give. He had already given his parents, and everyone he held dear. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and everyone else were all dead. Harry knew no one in this cold world. He knew _no one_. Everyone was gone; everyone had died, and now he was left alone, by himself and without a reason left to live if but to save the world.

Harry wandered aimlessly through the dark forest, his protections strong enough to ensure that he had nothing to fear. But in his mind, his worst fears had only been realized- or perhaps they had already happened- for some reason, Harry couldn't remember. His mind was like a blank slate- emotionless. Nothing. There was nothing there.

Because why should there be? What was the point, after all of this, to feel? There was no reason left, nothing to live for. He had no love left in the world, with the love of his life, his friends, his parents, and his mentors all gone. All that was left was those who pretended to understand, who through their own experience in the war thought they could understand.

Harry, even without being conceited, knew that they had absolutely no idea.

They didn't know what it was like to lose everything, and remain with nothing. They didn't know what it was like to wake up one day with your life intact, and only fear ruling your further actions- and then to have to go to bed that night having nothing- they didn't know what he had to go through, every day, to even survive.

No one did, except perhaps those who had already given their lives for the cause. They understood.

They were the only ones.

--

__

"Ginny! Ginny! No, please...not her... I'll do anything..."

"Harry." Ginny shook his shoulder gently, and then harder, until he woke up, his eyes glassy and his body shaking. "Harry, you're alright. I'm here. Stop, Harry. You're fine! Harry, I'm here!"

Harry shook for a few moments, and Ginny stroked his face gently until he calmed down enough to speak. "Ginny..."

"I'm here," she murmured again. "Are you alright?"

Shakily, Harry nodded, and looked at Ginny with love in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Gin. I can't help the nightmares."

Ginny nodded, smiling. There was no need to forgive. "I know you can't control them, Harry. You know we all have them."

Harry hesitated before saying quietly, "What is the point of us giving so much, Gin? What will be the gain for us? Will we lose more than we can give?"

Ginny rested her head against Harry's shoulder, and together they leaned back into the blankets on the cold ground. "I don't know, Harry. I think... I think all we actually can do is give all we have."

"But why?" Harry said desperately tears beginning to pull at his senses. "Why are we doing this, Ginny? What's the point? When we're going to lose it all anyway, why do we even attempt to save it?"

--

Harry didn't know anything anymore.

Memories kept flashing, and yet Harry still wandered aimlessly, no actual point to his walking. Maybe he would get lost, he thought. Maybe he could escape. If he just disappeared, would anyone truly search for him? Of course they would. After all, he was the savior. It didn't matter if the entire Old Order was dead. They had taken over, and he was expected to follow their lead like the good boy he was, and always had been. He had been so diligently trained to follow that rule- and he always had. The prophecy dictated that he couldn't die, but in his head- Harry wished he could.

But as much as he wanted to, Harry couldn't help but wonder what really went on in his head. No longer could he control his thoughts, or even his desires- it was simply a routine, meaningless motions that were as easy as blinking and breathing. Sending spells flying over the horizon and killing others was now instinct- and those were the things Harry had swore to himself he would never grow accustomed to. He had never wanted to be that comfortable with ending another's life that he could do it without a thought or even a regret- but when everyone else was looking for his one mistake in order to pull even more out from under him, there wasn't room for emotion or even feeling. Going numb was best, it was what was safe- and Harry followed it. What else was he supposed to? His mind told him what to do, and unconsciously, uncaring, he followed it to the word. He heard what others told him- and somewhere, it was registered deep inside his head, and he understood. But nothing meant anything anymore.

Long ago, when the war had just begun with Harry, victory and freedom and rights and salvation- those words _meant_something, and Harry felt that he had something to fight for, a reason to live and continue breathing. But now- what was it when he was fighting for a world that was already so broken, so condemned, that it would never be put back together again? Voldemort had accomplished his purpose. He had broken the light side so totally that all those who had given the reason to the cause were gone and dead. Freedom meant nothing- especially to Harry. Victory was only a dream. Rights meant living in secret, not being involved so totally that it controlled everything. And salvation was another unachievable dream- a distant nightmare, a far-off hope that everyone expected Harry to singlehandedly offer.

But Harry couldn't, and he knew it better than anyone.

Because he just wasn't strong enough. His entire life, he had strived to just be good enough, only for a moment- and in Hogwarts, sometimes he had felt that unachievable goal. He had felt successful- at school, at winning, at _something_. But here- there was nothing to be proud of. Maybe living another day should be considered to be an accomplishment. But to Harry, it was simply an _this is_- it was what was happening, and he simply didn't care. Because why should he?

Really, he had no reason.

No one cared enough to ask why Harry never slept anymore. He hadn't even bothered to ask himself- because really, it wasn't that hard to figure out- the nightmares were controlling him more than he had realized, and the sleepless nights he spent staring at nothing didn't even faze him anymore.

Harry wondered, in the back of his head, when he had fallen so far into nothingness that he just couldn't bring himself to care.

Maybe it was when Ginny died, he mused. Or even farther back, with Sirius' death. Or Hermione's. Or Ron's. Or Remus', or Tonks', or the rest of the Weasley family- all of them had did, and Harry had fallen even further.

He didn't remember, and he didn't want to remember.

Because he didn't care, and he didn't want to care.

He wandered further, and in the dark brush he tripped and fell to the ground. Harry sighed. All it was was another scar to add to his collection. In essence, his body was a living cutting board- every new scar that was added told a story, but he couldn't bring himself to remember anymore. Those stories just hurt. Even the good memories were fading now- lost in the swirl of darkness, lost in the gray that seemed to be invading the white-on-white that had once completely controlled his mind. No longer was he completely on the light side.

Because really? How can you believe in, and fight for, a cause that died along with your heart long ago?

You can't, and Harry knew it.

Long ago, the cause had died. It had begun with the ending of the first Order of the Phoenix. Hope had seemed to rise when the second Order had been established; but then as the members fell, one by one, suddenly there was no hope.

Harry knew there never were be.

And he fell further and further into himself, sanity slipping away, nightmares haunting, hope leaving, belief failing...

Lives fading.

__

Nothing.


	6. Nightmare

**A/N: This, too, was originally it's own one-shot. Please review.**

**--**

_Don't think. Don't think. Nothing left. Don't remember. Don't remember, and you won't get hurt._

_It's over now. It's over, don't think. There isn't anything to be afraid of. He can't hurt you anymore- he won't hurt you anymore. He's gone. He's dead, forever. He's not coming back. Can't you see? You're safe. _

_Safe…_

_You feel their touch, don't you? They care for you. Don't let the world swallow you. The fear- it's controlling you, and you can't escape... I'm here, and you will never leave._

_Don't think. Don't remember. Just breathe._

_Can't breathe. Can't. Don't want to- won't. Can't. You can't. Don't remember, and don't think. Just breathe. But you can't- and you're suffocating, and you're dying, and there is nothing else for you to do._

_You're too far gone now._

_This is your reality, isn't it? You live here, in the dark. Hiding. Because you're afraid. Fear can be so controlling- and it's winning over you, because you can't escape. You can never escape._

_You don't want to escape._

_Hide. Don't think. Just hide. You're safe here._

_Run away, and don't look back. Don't ever look back._

_But they are here, and you aren't. There's nothing. This is your reality- you're dying. Dying is your reality, and living is your nightmare. You're living it. You're here. And you can't get out. There's no turning back._

_It's over for them. But for you, it has just begun._

_Shattered. Broken. Cling to yourself. It's all you have left._

_On second thought, you have nothing._

_You have them. But even they are going to leave, eventually. Because you're not going back. You can't go back._

_Too far gone._

_Forever._

_You're never going back, and it's because of fear and hurt and pain that you can't even if you wanted to._

_Touch. Cold. It's a memory- you want to forget, don't you? But I won't let you- no, you can't forget, because it's what you live now. You live in memories, those that torture you and haunt you and rip you apart- you live here, with me. I'm your consoler and your tormentor- with me, you exist, you live, and you die. Here, with me. And you can't escape. I'm stronger than you, and I always will be._

_Fall, fall down, and fall down again. Just fall. You have no choice. I'm pushing you off the ledge- I'm testing your limits, I'm giving your last shred of life away. Fall down. Just fall- you have no will never have a choice._

_There now, isn't that easier? Don't fight me. Don't ever fight me- you can't fight me, because I am stronger. You were lost long ago. Now you're just falling, and I am here. I win. I win, and you lose. It's as simple as that. _

_Ultimately, you lose, and you will never win again._

_Keep falling- feel it, it feels good. Just give in. Don't go against me. Go with what you feel- because what you feel is what you should be feeling, now. Feel what I tell you to feel. Listen to me. Feel anger, and cruelty, and pain, and hurt, and even desire- feel it, and act on it, because it is then that you shall be strong again._

_Strong. Never free. Never, never free._

_Because I- I will never let you go._

--

Hermione Granger screamed, and the voices in her head just laughed.

--

**That's insanity talking, to Hermione, if you didn't catch that. For my own Insanity Challenge on HPFC. Please review. I'm really unsure about this one.**


	7. Mistakes

I have always hated my own scars, but words cannot fathom how much I despise the scars that reside permanently on Harry Potter's body. Those scars are the ones that will take payment later- the scar on his forehead predicts his death, and the scars on his back tell of his anger. However, it was my mistakes that led to those scars, and I will never forget it.

I will not deny that they are all my fault. I knew that the Potters would be killed; I did not know, however, that Harry would survive. Once he did, I knew it was my fault he was cursed.

The guilt I felt caused me to do the next worst thing. I left him with Petunia, Harry's mother's sister. She hated the child, and I knew it. I put him there anyway.

Years later, when he came to Hogwarts, he showed me the scars on his back. I was able to hide my tears, but I knew then of my second mistake.

I did not tell Harry of the prophecy. However, when he and Voldemort himself fought first, and then second, year- I knew my third mistake. Harry was on a run to get revenge for his parents' deaths.

As he rightly should, but I couldn't allow him to do that, now could I? Of course not.

So I left him in the dark once again, and in his third year my fourth mistake was revealed to me. Harry met his godfather, and the tentative bond I _knew _he would eventually lose was formed. Yet another scar on Harry Potter's heart would come, and I knew it.

Yet I did nothing.

Fourth year, I foolishly let Harry enter the tournament. He learned much, but his privacy, his safety, his peace of mind, and even his _friends _were compromised; and my fifth mistake led Harry straight to Voldemort once again, just as I had known it would.

Fifth year, and the scar I had predicted two years previous formed with the loss of Harry's godfather, and Harry gained even more bodily scars due to my own neglect. My sixth mistake led to the death of Sirius, and the forming of an army I had never predicted would be necessary. I had never wanted children to fight- but the back of my mind asked me, _What is Harry, if not a child_?

Sixth year brought my seventh mistake, along with my death. I knew it was coming, I had even arranged it; but my mistake was far more shattering to Harry than even my own death. I had left him in the dark about so many things, and he felt alone. So alone.

I knew nothing of the seventh year- I watched, of course, but I pulled no strings and told no secrets.

It was in his seventh year, without me to make the mistake, that Harry finally succeeded.

--

**Extremely short, but I like it. This is obviously from Albus Dumbledore's POV. Please review?**


	8. Without

The day was quiet and calm, with the grounds of Hogwarts being almost completely empty except for the waves crashing across the lake as the giant squid made his daily rounds. The serenity of the calmness almost surpassed explanation- there was no noise, no sound; there was nothing.

When the explosion screamed it's way through Hogwarts, shaking the walls of the castle to the point of breakage, the world seemed to fall to pieces. The carefully formed, practically impenetrable walls crumbled in the tiniest proportion, but the foundation was undoubtedly shaken- the walls were penetrated to their very core from the strength of the explosion. Inside, all the students and teachers looked around wildly for the cause of what had caused their huge, beautiful castle to rock back and forth so powerfully, sending items flying across the room and people into one another.

All the rooms were searched, until at last Albus Dumbledore walked slowly down to the dungeons, mentally preparing himself for what he would see- for what he knew would be there. It was the only place left. It was the only place that could feasibly have an explosion.

Stone upon stone, rubble upon rubble, wreckage upon wreckage- frankly, the old man was surprised beyond his shock that the entire above floor of the castle hadn't caved in with the loss of this many supports. The roof of the Potions classroom had caved in onto itself, crushing everything inside; potions bottles, or what was left of them, were strewn over the tops of the rocks; and a few body parts, hopefully still attached, could be seen. Liquids were seeping all over from the broken bottles, and to himself Dumbledore wondered exactly what had caused the explosion. Was it a potion gone wrong? Usually Severus Snape, the potions master, was so careful at making sure students didn't add the wrong ingredients- or if they did, that it was nothing immediately dangerous.

The main point, though, was that there were students under that rubble. There were people. There were lives, about to be lost.

Sounding the alarm with his own Patronus, a phoenix, Dumbledore began the frantic movement of rock, levitating large pieces carefully with his wand and either depositing them at the far part of the hall or simply banishing them. Within minutes he could hear feet pounding on the cold stone steps, coming to help. Albus had already scanned his carefully organized mind, and from that information he had gathered that this had been seventh year double potions- Slytherin and Gryffindor. Almost the whole original group from years previous had, surprisingly, made it into Severus' elite class.

Not good, Dumbledore thought to himself, with an even bigger pang of grief and fear tugging at his heart. These are mostly pureblood families. Powerful families. Powerful people.

What Dumbledore couldn't bring himself to think of was the fact that the five people most essential to the war were in that rubble. Harry Potter, first and foremost; and then Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Draco Malfoy, and Severus Snape. If those five were lost, then the war would undoubtedly take a tragic turn. The prophecy would be fulfilled by a tragic accident if Harry died, and Voldemort would rule the world. If Hermione Granger died, the world would be lost of one of the greatest geniuses Albus was sure it had ever seen. Ron Weasley was part of the Trio, and Dumbledore had no doubt that his bravery and loyalty would eventually pay off even more than it already had. Draco Malfoy was influential in Slytherin, and without him Dumbledore wasn't sure exactly what would happen.

So, following the metho he had recently chosen as his own, Dumbledore chose not to think about it at all at the present moment. It seemed to be a good solution, really.

He was pushed out of his thoughts by Minerva McGonogall appearing at his arm. "Who is it?" she said breathlessly, and he immediately knew who she was talking about.

With a deep sigh, Dumbledore revealed the news. "Seventh year, double Potions. Slytherin and Gryffindor."

Her gasp reflected his own feelings, as she had obviously came to the same conclusion he had. Turning quickly, Albus returned to his task of levitating rock away. It was obvious to Dumbledore that he was thinking only of the war now, and not of those lives buried.

Still, he couldn't help but be afraid of what they would find.

--

Hours later, the whole classroom had been unearthed, and the devastating enormity of the losses had finally been calculated. Out of a class of twenty-one students, eight had been lost.

Among those eight were not only the five most important people in the war, but also Neville Longbottom and one other.

It was all rather convenient, Albus thought to himself. Of _course_ they would all go and die on him; because that would just make sense, right? Of course Albus knew he was being selfish and really rather cruel, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care. His carefully constructed plans were falling apart before his eyes, and he couldn't stand it.

Sighing deeply, Dumbledore turned back to the papers on his desk and began arranging the funeral plans.

The world would have to survive on it's own.

--

**Two Dumbledore fics... anyways, I must admit I like a manipulative!Dumbledore. Not sure why. Anyway, this is a little taste of AU that I thought was going to be its own story, but I changed my mind. Please review.**


	9. Fragility

**Character:** Regulus  
**Prompt: **fragility

--

He went to her wedding, even though he hated the man she was marrying. He looked around at the ice, falling from the trees; it perfectly matched the _beautiful_ couple in front of him. The identical expressions of _joy_ on their faces were so fake that he almost laughed; everyone who knew anything about those two knew that their marriage _couldn't_ be real.

Maybe they thought it was. Maybe, maybe, maybe... maybe they did.

But Regulus knew better. Nothing was ever perfect, nothing was ever like it should be- and why should this _marriage_ be anything different? Two beautiful people, a perfect world.

_What a lie_.

Regulus didn't deny that he was bitter. Of course he was bitter! Sweet, sweet Cissy, being swept away by _Malfoy, _who could, and surely would, hurt her...

And that's what it came down to. Cissy, _his_ Cissy, would be hurt.

But of course she wasn't Cissy anymore. She was _Narcissa_ now. She was a _married woman_. She had explained all this to him, late one night, at Grimmauld Place; and he had been cold and condescending, as he always was... he had hid his tears...

Of course she had seen right through it, as she always did. She was his best friend, his confidant. She knew him better than anyone, better than he practically knew himself.

He had always been the strong one. He knew he could take care of himself, and that he didn't need her. But why, then, _why_ wouldn't the tears go away?

He wasn't in love with her. Regulus had never fooled himself that deeply, to say that he was in _love_ with his cousin, even if in his family it would have been deemed acceptable; no, he _loved_ with the girl he had known as a child, the one who played with him for hours. He loved _Cissy_. His cousin. His best friend.

And now she was getting married, and Regulus _knew _she would get hurt.

He had already been hurt. He had already made his mistakes; and he knew she would get hurt also, the same way he had. He _knew_ what Lucius was like, better than she did, if he had to guess. He _knew_, and he hated it. She would get hurt. She would _die..._

Regulus had never liked emotion; he preferred to hide it away. He liked to _pretend_. Just make it go away...

But now, _now_. Now, he couldn't pretend it wasn't real- because it was, and it was happening.

Narcissa was as fragile as the ice spinning from the trees, ready to break from things she didn't, _couldn't_ understand- and all he could do was watch.

--

**Requested by Static Lull over at HPFC. Hope you enjoy.**


	10. Fade

**Characters: **Blaise Zabini/Ginny Weasley  
**Prompt: **caveat (noun, warning or caution) and fluorescent light

--

His face was hidden by shadows as he looked at her, except for his eyes, which were full of pain. "Stay away from me," he hissed, running one hand through his hair. He took a step away from her, just as she moved closer to him.

"You know I can't, Blaise," Ginny whispered, almost apologetically. "Y-You know I c-can't-" her voice began to fail her as a lone tear ran down her face, which Blaise quickly reached out to wipe away.

"Yes, you _can_, Ginny, and you _will_," Blaise said firmly, hating what he was doing. "You can't stay with me."

"Why not?" The always-defiant Gryffindor asked, her red hair looking almost black in the darkness of the room. "We've been through this before, Blaise- you know I don't care-"

"_I care,_" Blaise whispered, almost inaudibly, as he turned around and faced the wall behind him. He could feel Ginny's small arms wrap around his shoulders, and he sighed deeply.

Turning to face her, he finally relented and allowed her to settle familiarly into his arms. "The Dark Lord is coming for me," he whispered into her hair, stroking the red locks he loved so much. "He can't know about us. He can't know about... you."

Ginny was silent for a long minute, before she looked up into his face again. "What if he does?"

Blaise shook his head frantically. "H-he c-can't, Ginny. Please. Stay away from m-me… or e-else."

"Is that a warning, Blaise?" Ginny's voice was soft and low, but it was slightly shaky. The very sound of it broke Blaise's heart. He hated to see her this way...

It took all the strength he had to nod slowly, looking at her carefully. Would she be angry? Would she cry even more?

Ginny, as always, surprised Blaise with her reaction. Reaching up, she hugged him gently, settling her head against his broad shoulder. "Thank you for caring about me," She whispered slowly, stroking his hair. "I care about you too. But..."

The inevitable _but_ had to come, Blaise thought to himself, weaving his hands around her waist once again. He waited for her to continue.

"But..." Ginny repeated. "I don't think me being away from you will keep the Dark Lord away."

With that, she turned, and was gone.

--

The days seemed so much longer, to both of them, without one another in their lives. Their relationship had been secret, of course, except only to a few people; but all the same, everything seemed wrong. Classes were attended and gossip was spread, but Ginny and Blaise felt alone all the same.

Ginny kept true to what Blaise had made her promise. She stayed away from him, except for a few letters they exchanged which were promptly burned after they were read. She hated being away from him; but his reasons had made sense to her, despite her doubts.

It was easy to see the change in Blaise, at least to her. His face became one of fear; she had no doubt that the day he would be called by the Dark Lord would come soon.

It was easy for Ginny Weasley to make her decision. If Blaise was going to die, then so was she.

--

Blaise had immediately known it was a mistake to tell Ginny the date he had received from the Dark Lord himself. But he hadn't been able to stop himself- because he was _scared_, so scared.

He was being incredibly selfish, but he wanted her with him, no matter what.

--

Ginny woke up, apparently, but she didn't quite remember what had happened. All she felt was an immense pain, stemming from everywhere around her, flowing into her… and she knew she was going to die, she just knew it.

_Blaise_. The name comforted her, and she idly wondered where he was. It amazed her how calm she was, even at a time like this.

She was startled by a gentle squeeze on her hand, and with difficulty she opened her eyes to see Blaise above her, blood dripping from what was surely a fatal wound.

"Ginny," he whispered frantically, his words failing, his voice weak. "I'm so sorry-"

She only smiled weakly. "We're together again."

Blaise stared at her for a long minute, before collapsing himself. It took a long moment, but he finally whispered back, "Yes."

Holding hands, they faded into the fluorescent light of death.

--

**This definitely isn't my best piece. It doesn't flow right, but I decided to post it all the same. Please review?**

**For writingxonxwalls, over on HPFC.**


	11. This Is War

**Characters: **Lavender Brown  
**Prompts: **torture under the Carrows, forgotten and broken dreams, instilling hope in little ones

**.**

You scream, but everyone else dutifully ignores you, because it's what they're supposed to do. You know you're crying, somewhere beneath the mask that you have unconsciously put up; you can feel the salty tears trickling down your face, but that fact in itself is insignificant. You're being punished again, and _oh_, does it _hurt_.

You can't even remember what you did anymore, and you wonder if you're losing your mind. How is punishment supposed to be a learning experience, you think to yourself idly, if the person can't remember what their crime was in the first place? _It's funny what you think of when you can't think of anything at all_.

It seems like ages before the curse is lifted, and the escape from pain isn't really an escape at all. Oh, no, you're still in pain. It doesn't go away that easily. _You learned that the hard way…_

You see Ginny watching you, and Seamus, and Neville. They are all holding their breaths; that much is obvious. They're waiting to see if you're okay, that you're alive, that you aren't hurt permanently, that you aren't _dead_. Their caring touches you and haunts you at the same time, but you don't have time to think of that. You're too busy laying on the ground, writhing and shaking and still crying. _You hate crying._

It takes all the effort you have to lift your head up and give a small, nearly invisible nod to them. _You're okay_.

For now, anyway. You're not so sure how much you can take.

.

I've never had a high tolerance for pain. When I was little, I wanted to be a princess; and I was, in my parent's eyes. They pampered me, and loved me, and gave me whatever I wanted; but tough love was still the name of the game, and I learned responsibility just like any other child. But I was protected to all costs as a child, and I never had to look after myself. I was never in pain, _real pain_.

But when I learned of _magic,_ and the _possibilities _of it, I fell into another world of mysticism and wonder and awe_. _I fell in love with the power it gave me, to fulfill my dreams and my wishes and be anyone I wanted. I dreamed of being powerful, but only in my own right; I dreamed of getting married, and growing old, and having children, and being happy. _I miss those dreams._

Because now, it all doesn't seem so easy anymore. The school, _Hogwarts_, that I had learned to love so much- it is a broken system, and pool of corruption and deceit and lies that all the students are drowning in. Put one toe out of line, and you'll be sorry- and oh, we _are_ sorry, we certainly are.

We are sorry, because we are hurt. Everyone here is hurt, except those bloody _Slytherins_ who always do everything right. We Gryffindors, they know our past. They know we are brave, and they know we won't give up. _They hate us for it._

I almost think my dreams are broken now. I can't help but being afraid I won't grow up, that I won't live to see any children or my husband. I have nightmares about it sometimes, that I'll be left alone in the ground, in a grave where no one will come see me… No husband, no children to miss me. Only the friends I leave behind. _What have I left behind that will make a difference?_

Corruption has scarred me. It's scarred all of us, and we can't escape it. It's always there. _And it will never go away._ That's what I'm afraid of.

But we have to be the brave ones. We're the oldest, perhaps the wisest, and certainly the bravest. Some of the fifth and sixth years, sometimes even fourth years, try and help us; but they aren't quite as commited as we are. Perhaps they don't understand the extent of the war.

But we do, and we know that Harry and Hermione and Ron are out there somewhere, fighting just as hard as we are. And that's why we continue. That's why we try _so hard_ to be brave…

It isn't easy sometimes. It isn't easy to sit and watch as an innocent first-year, an _eleven-year-old_, is tortured because he messed up an essay. It isn't easy to sit back and watch as your friends, your _peers_, cry for their mothers because they can't help it. It isn't easy to listen to _yourself_ sob and whimper and fall, because you can't help it either. I know the feeling. It doesn't make it any easier.

We all try- the older ones, that is- to support the younger ones. We sometimes take punishments for them, if we are strong enough after our own. We block their path and try to shield them as much as possible. We comfort htem, and dry their tears, and _try, try, try _to get them out, if possible. It's nearly never possible. But still we try.

_We_ know what it's like to live in war; we don't want that for them.

_Why should more children have to learn to live in fear?_

And that is why we do it, and why we will _never _give up. We're braver than anyone thinks, and we'll do whatever it takes.

_After all, this is war._

**. **

**Written for Nanaho-Hime over at HPFC. Please review.**


	12. Father

**character/pairing**: Draco and Lucius  
**prompt**: father-son relationship; preferably, Draco's trying to please his father and failing to do so/ ceasing to try/ denouncing his father etc.

**.**

When he had been a child, his father had been his hero. _Daddy_ was the one who could make it all better; _Daddy_ was the one who could always make the tears go away; _Daddy_ was the one Draco always wanted around him. It was always _Daddy_.

Draco loved him, with all his heart. As a little boy, he had heard stories of an evil man who had hurt his daddy; not in those exact words, of course, but that was the main point Draco heard. He had hated that evil man who had been _so brave_ and _so mean_ to even try and hurt Daddy!

But as he grew, Draco saw that the stories had been a lie. Perhaps the _evil man_ had hurt his father, but it wasn't accidental. Lucius had accepted it, wanted it, _craved it_ all for the love of power.

Draco grew to hate his father.

His Hogwarts years changed things even more. He was _expected_ to be just like his father. And he respected the man in many ways; but the things that he didn't like overruled everything else. Draco couldn't help but believe that his father was a _bad man_.

Lucius had never hurt him; but Draco could see the day coming when his time of innocence was up. He was far from innocent even as an eleven-year-old; and as he grew older, it grew harder and harder. Draco never wanted to disappoint his father, but it always seemed that he did...

He had to pretend.

And that was what he did. He _pretended_; he had all the right friends; the right influences; the right words to say in any situation. He went to the meetings his father made him attend. He had learned that it wasn't _Daddy _anymore, it was _Father. _He learned to fear, and he learned to fight.

Oh, but he was _never_ loyal.

It wasn't till he was sixteen that he truly had to make a choice. When he did, it was the hardest thing he ever had to do.

Because he had to leave _Daddy_. He had to leave the dream of his father loving him again; he had to leave the memory of a happy childhood behind. He had to leave it all.

He didn't want to dissapoint Daddy.

But he did. (Because sometimes, life is more important than a memory.)

Draco went to Dumbledore. He told his true feelings, and of the manipulation he had lived through his entire life. He told Dumbledore everything... _everything_. The man believed him.

What Draco hadn't expected was that when he was alone, he cried. Because ultimately, he had still lost.

**.**

**Not my favorite, but I liked it. For Ramelia88 over at HPFC.**


	13. Never Forgotten

**This was originally it's own one-shot on my profile, but I decided it wasn't good enough to be it's own story... so it goes here instead. **

**.**

_Two hundred and seventy-four._

The number on the parchment in front of him stared back menacingly, and with a gasp Harry tore his face up to look at Kingsley. The older man's face was impassive, his dark skin just barely betraying the signs of age and stress.

"T-two h-hundred and s… seventy-four, Kingsley?" Harry couldn't help but be ashamed at the way his voice cracked in the middle of his sentence, but at the moment he just didn't care.

_Two hundred and seventy-four._

Kingsley's gaze was level as he looked the green-eyed man in the eye. "Yes, Harry. That's the number."

"Both wars?" Harry's voice was a whisper, a desperate plea resounding in his words that Kingsley didn't miss.

A heavy sigh came from Kingsley's mouth, and he nodded. "Both wars, Harry."

_Two hundred and seventy-four._

.

_Two hundred and seventy-four deaths. Two hundred and seventy-four screams. Two hundred and seventy-four flashes of green- two hundred and seventy-four cries of pain. Two hundred and seventy-four broken lives. Two hundred and seventy-four chances that would never be given back._

.

The funerals had been long and hard, and Harry wasn't quite sure in all reality how he had survived them. Pure will, he guessed; many around him had been overtaken long before the funeral started by sobs that didn't seem to go away. Harry avoided all eye contact that day, and even surprised himself by not shedding a single tear. He had held Ginny tight, given Hermione support, and apologized adamantly to Ron for the death of his brother. It wasn't enough.

Mrs. Weasley had been concerned about his lack of emotion, but after the fourth time he reassured her he was _perfectly fine_, she stopped asking. In truth, Harry wasn't quite sure exactly what was going on; all he knew, deep inside, was that two hundred and seventy-four people were dead, and it was his fault.

.

Harry carefully made his way up to Dumbledore's old office, once all the hustle, bustle, and grief of the day was over. He wasn't quite sure of the logic that told him to do it- but he did it anyway, and the quiet solitude that the silent room offered him was worthwhile.

A good ten minutes had passed before Harry began to speak into the silence.

"I don't understand how I can try so hard, and yet still lose so much. I tried _so hard_- to be the he-hero..."

Harry's sobs overtook him, and for a long minute he let himself cry.

"It doesn't make sense. I've lost nearly everything I care for. I mean, I still have Hermione, and Ron, and Ginny... most of all Ginny. She means so much to me, and I'm SO glad i didn't lose her."

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath before continuing.

"But Remus is gone, and Sirius… and Mom and Dad, I didn't even know them- and then Fred, and Moody, and others I don't even know- they're _dead_!"

Harry's angry words were punctuated by him getting up and storming around the office, his forceful footsteps banging on the wood floor. His eyes were hard and cold.

"They're dead, because of me," he whispered to the silence, slumping back down into the chair again. "They're dead."

It seemed like an eternity until the tears and gasping sobs stopped, and when they did Harry opened his eyes to see the portrait of Albus Dumbledore staring sympathetically back at him.

Harry's mouth opened in a single "o," and his eyes widened in shock. He tried to say something, but was unable to.

"It was never your fault, Harry," Dumbledore spoke softly, his eyes kind. "It was never your fault."

After a long moment, Harry turned away and angrily swiped away the tears rolling down his face. "How can it not be, sir?" he responded, disbelieving. "I was always the hero, the bloody damn _Chosen One_. Everyone expected me to be their savior, and I failed."

"Is killing Voldemort considered a failure to those very same people? Is triumphing over the Dark not enough? You set the expectations too high for yourself, my dear boy, and you can never live up to them."

Harry sighed deeply, his head in his hands. "I know he's dead, Professor. I know he's gone, and that I won. But there are two hundred and seventy-four people that are dead, and they're never coming back." His voice broke once again, and he croaked out, "Why couldn't I save them?" Another tear fell, but Harry ignored it.

Dumbledore sighed in turn before answering. "I have no answer for that, Harry, except that there were many great men and women who _willingly _gave their lives for the cause of the Light. Look at me, Harry."

Green met blue, and Harry could see the utter truth reflected in the old man's eyes. Dumbledore continued. "They were willing to offer themselves, and it was not _for_ you that they had died. It was for the light. Harry- listen to me. You were ready to give your life, were you not? You went to Voldemort, and you let him kill you for the rest of us- because you thought that was the only way. Am I correct?"

Another sob choked Harry, but he nodded after a moment. "Yes, sir."

"Correct. Yes, Harry. You were willing to give _your_ own life- and it is the same thing for them. They were willing, and ready, and they gave up their lives for the cause that ultimately was successful. Now, can you tell me that their sacrifice wasn't worth it?"

Harry's eyes widened in shock, and he shook his head faster than he had ever thought possible. "No! Of course it was worth it! Don't even say that…" He brushed away another tear.

"Don't you see, m'boy? They are dead, I will give you that, and all the magic in the world couldn't bring them back. But their deaths were not in vain, and no blame is placed on you for them."

Harry fell silent, and then nodded slowly, a small smile blooming over his pale, tear-streaked face. "I think I understand, sir."

Dumbledore's portrait smiled back. "They will never be forgotten, Harry. I can promise you that."

"Never," Harry agreed, nodding emphatically. That was something he had promised himself ever since the first personal death he experienced during the war- that the fallen would never, _ever_ be forgotten.

Dumbledore paused, and then continued. "And I wanted to say, Harry- I am so proud of you. You… you did better than I ever thought you would. Your parents would be proud of you."

The tears that pierced Harry's eyes this time were ones of joy and admiration as he replied. "T-thank you… and you, sir- you did more for the war than anyone else, and I can't help but say thank you for getting me through all these years. It wasn't easy… but I guess you're right. Nothing is ever forgotten, and in the end… it was worth it."

.

_Two hundred and seventy-four deaths. Two hundred and seventy-four memories. Two hundred and seventy-four sacrifices- two hundred and seventy-four successes. Two hundred and seventy-four remembered lives. Two hundred and seventy-four chances that were lived to the fullest._

.

**Please review. I know some of you may have already seen this, but I'd appreciate some reviews all the same!**


	14. Similarity

**Similarity**

for Nanaho-Hime.

_Characters_: Dorcas Meadowes  
_Prompt_: Defiance  
_Other Notes_: I'd prefer that she personally knew Voldemort as in they went to school together and such

--

You can't help but notice the similarities between you. He fights for what he wants; you fight against what you hate. Perhaps you both could be considered selfish, but what's that got to do with anything?

You wonder, sometimes, why he doesn't go by _Tom Riddle_ anymore. That's what you remember him as. Not the horrid name of _Lord Voldemort_; that name instills fear in the hearts of all around you. You find it pathetic; he finds it encouraging.

He's still Tom Riddle to you, and you smile sometimes as you remember the cold boy who walked silently through the halls at Hogwarts. You remember admiring him, being impressed by his intelligence and wit; but now, you are disappointed because he put it all to waste.

Do you really need to be intelligent to rule the world?

The logical answer is yes. You think it's no. After all, you only need the _desire_ for power, the _want_ to be in command, the _need_ for control; and he has every single one of those qualities down pat.

Perhaps it's the good will for men that isn't there, but then again that's just a cheesy Muggle Christmas carol. You know Tom Riddle will never care for anyone but himself.

That's why you don't fear him. He's selfish; you're selfish too, but it's different. You wonder sometimes if he's immortal; you're glad to know you're not. Immortality seems like too big of a burden to bear.

Everyone admires you because you're not afraid. You wonder why they just don't follow your example, instead of telling you that you're brave but foolish; why can't they see that fear only weakens the body, the mind, and the spirit?

Tom Riddle never quite grasped that concept, either. You know he's just afraid. Afraid of losing.

You're not.

That's why, when he comes for you, you greet him kindly. You offer him tea, and take your death standing up, facing forward; because after all, you are not weak. You're defiant, and you really are _afraid_; but you hide it, because you _can't_ be weak.

Just like him.

You're more similar than you thought.

--

**Please review.**


	15. Not Truly Living

..

_Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait,  
For God has bid them share an equal fate;  
And when at last, defeated in His wars,  
They have gone down under the same white stars,  
We shall no longer hear the little cry  
Of our sad hearts, that may not live nor die._

-The Rose of Battle, by W.B. Yeats

..

You don't remember much. Sometimes, you even forget to remember; but that's beside the point. When you _do_ remember, all you think of is pain. Pain, and agony, and _screaming_, and-

If you remember that much, it's then that you choose to forget.

You think that you were smart, once. Brilliant, even; maybe you were respected by all around you, for your power and wisdom and bravery. _Maybe_.

So it is then that you wonder exactly _why_ you don't know what to do. You feel a hand resting in yours; and you look over to see a man sitting next to you. He looks just as confused. _Maybe he's forgotten too._ You wish you could help him; but you can't help yourself.

You remember fighting for something. You remember _magic_- but you can't grasp it, and you don't understand. You were powerful, once. It's a shame you can't remember.

You don't see anyone, ever, except the man who lies in the bed next to you. You wonder who he is. Should you know him?

A baby comes to see you, too, sometimes. He's with an older lady you don't recognize; but she _always_ seems to be crying, and it upsets you. You don't like crying.

Your days are so routine you sometimes want to cry at the sheer boredom you feel. But you don't, because you don't know or understand anything else. You just remember and then forget again. Things come and go- and that's the way your life is.

You don't know it, but you will never truly live again.

..

**For bookwormofmassiveproportions. Just in case, this is from Alice Longbottom's POV. Please review.**


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